And The Snakes Start To Sing
by Evil Mockingbird
Summary: AU, no gods. Worms come out of the woodwork, leeches crawl from out of the dirt, rats come out of the holes they call home ... and the snakes start to sing. Business gets dirty sometimes, and in a war ... well, what do you expect? Or, Nico has multiple personalities, Tom Riddle has kids, and other countries become relevant. Rape, murder, dissociative identity disorder, suicide etc.
1. Prologue

**And The Snakes Start to Sing …**

 **N.B. Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I decided to make Nico two years younger than in canon. I had a small plot point that I for some reason really wanted to include (it gets mentioned like twice it's kind of ridiculous) that didn't work until I did that. Sorry.**

 **AU – no gods, just weird superpowers.**

 **So if you read the original version of this, when it was still The Sharpest Lives, it was just a bit of a train-wreck. The problem was, at the start I had the idea of the demigods being these corruption-fighting good guys that went to fix everything, and then I went back and looked at it in about November of 2014, decided it was too perfect, and thought I should make it into a weird parody story. Then I went back in about March of 2015 and decided to basically make the demigods evil and Nico have a really fucked up past. Now, as you can imagine, these three themes don't go well in a story together. So, now, having finally made a decision on how I want to story to go, I feel safe re-writing it.**

 **This is going to be a bit depressing, seeing as I had gone through I bit of trauma at the time of** _ **finally making a decision**_ **, so ... shit gets dark in this story.**

 **Trigger Warnings:  
** **Drug abuse.  
** **Alcohol abuse.  
** **Mental illness.  
** **Child abuse.  
** **Rape, assault, CSE etc.  
** **Eating disorders.  
** **Suicide + suicidal tendencies.**

 **A major plot point of this story is Dissociative Identity Disorder, so if you know anything about it, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could talk to me about it.**

 **NB: I kinda changed some things ... Like, a** _ **lot**_ **. Sorry; it just fits my ideal.**

* * *

 **Chapter One – 24/6/13**

Nico didn't know where he was.

It wasn't an uncommon phenomenon; he was used to it by now. He was used to finding himself wandering around unfamiliar streets far from home; used to waking up only to realize he had been out of bed for several hours; used to coming-to holding handfuls of unwanted, unpaid-for clutter.

He'd come to anticipate it now. It was a part of life.

He knew where he wanted to go – where he _needed_ to go – but his body didn't seem to want to respond. Instead he just lay on the ground, staring despondently up at the dark sky. Okay, so it was night. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that he was late – _far too late_ – but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He slowly regained control of his limbs and, after and undetermined period of time, finally sat up. The world spun rapidly, but when it finally slid to a stand-still, it seemed oddly colored – duller, somehow, as though a veil of thin grey mist had settled itself over his eyes. It was bitingly cold, but he couldn't feel it. Perhaps he had been lying down for so long he had gone numb from it.

He stumbled blindly along the side of the winding road between the two steep hills, unable to feel his legs – _or anything else_ – and hoping no car would come. Would they see him, the poor dead boy on the road corner? Would their blinding light illuminate his dark clothes, reflect off his pale skin, shine in his dull eyes? Would it hurt if they did? He didn't imagine it would. He imagined it being quick. Bam. Over. Done with. A single rush of adrenaline, collision and then flying … flying … flying high above the world.

Would he go to Heaven, like Bianca and Mama had? No, he wasn't good enough for that. That was what Father said – _but what does Father know about Heaven?_ – would happen to him.

 _Father doesn't believe we can do anything._

Nico shook his head. Odd thoughts like that passed through his head, unbidden, on the strangest occasions.

He had reached the graveyard by now – _wait, when did we go off the road? Goddamnit Nick_ – and he could see the towering steeple of the twelfth-century church over the gravestones.

Next to by far the most extravagant headstone in the churchyard, a rather interesting event was taking place. There was a large, glowing cup lying on the ground, about ten meters from where a scrawny, black-haired boy was talking to an older, more handsome one with copper-colored hair.

There it was again; that losing time. Nico had only blinked – at least he thought he had – but suddenly the copper-haired boy wasn't moving and the scrawny one was tied to the headstone.

Hold on, who was that? The man in the dark cloak – _it's Pettigrew, of course_ – and what was he holding?

Oh, this doesn't look very good. Perhaps he should go up and talk to the black-haired boy over there? Maybe he'd know what was going on.

He sidled up very close to the headstone, just behind the boy.

The boy noticed him.

He had jet black hair, like him, but his eyes were green. They were a really bright green, Nico thought; like Lacy's. They looked to be full of pain right about now, for some reason.

He wheezed out something, but Nico couldn't hear him. He felt himself answer, though it sounded far away, as though through a tunnel, or bad phone signal.

He brought a hand up to his face and rubbed his temples. His head was pounding and the odd static that filled his ears wasn't helping. He barely registered the odd ritual going on, although his legs took him to the cauldron side obediently.

The sight of the tall, slender man with dark hair and red eyes only seemed to make him feel worse. The world started to spin again, and suddenly he _wasn't there_.

* * *

Harry wasn't sure what to make of the boy.

He was a taller than Harry by nearly half a foot. Dark haired, pale and thin – far too thin – but at the same time almost impossibly handsome in a _wow-we-need-to-get-you-help_ kind of way. His eyes were the most striking thing about him though. They were almond shaped, deep set and narrow and, even though they were glazed and unfocused, seemed to shine with the light of a thousand suns.

"Why are you just standing there?" Harry whispered at him.

"There's not much more we can do," the boy replied, although looking at his face, you wouldn't have thought he'd heard anything.

Harry was too scared of the situation to notice the unnecessary use of the first person plural. "Can you at least loosen these ropes?"

The boy didn't seem to hear; he was wincing and rubbing his temples with his hand. At a word from the bundle of rags, he walked forward woodenly. Harry wondered if he was high or, perhaps, mentally handicapped, but he hadn't sounded particularly uneducated – quite the opposite, in fact.

He stood by Voldemort's side during his unnecessarily longwinded and narcissistic speech, his posture changing almost entirely. He went from a hunched over, timid looking child – fifteen at most – to a strong, haughty-looking leader rivalling Voldemort in terms of how powerful he looked, despite his fragile frame.

Something about this posture reminded Harry of someone. He wasn't sure who – definitely not someone in the Wizarding World – but certainly of someone.

To be honest, now wasn't exactly the time to be worrying about that.

He seemed oddly spaced out during their duel, fixed on a spot far in the distance that Harry couldn't and didn't want to see. He didn't react when Voldemort's _avada kedavra_ missed him by mere centimetres, or when a shattered piece of Tom Riddle Sr.'s gravestone shot over his head, or when the ghosts of the most recent people Voldemort had killed floated out of his wand, or even when Harry dashed right past him, trying to get to Cedric's body – 'Yeah, definitely high,' Harry thought – but what _did_ catch his attention was Harry's wordless cry of despair as he realised he wouldn't reach the Cup in time.

It seemed almost in slow motion: Harry grabbed Cedric's body and turned to where he thought the Cup had been, only to see it being banished over to the other side of the graveyard by the Death Eater he was 67% sure was Malfoy. He caught the boy's apathetic eye and thought 'I'm right-royally buggered.'

However, the boy's mask seemed to crack slightly, and something vaguely human shone from his night-black eyes. He raised a hand, stopping the Cup mid-flight, and sent it right back to Harry. Shocked, Harry barely managed to raise his hand in time to catch it, and the last thing he saw was the boy cowering at Voldemort whirled round to face him, looking more livid than Harry had ever seen him.

* * *

Nico was back home now.

It was new town, built after the end of the Giant War. It was called New London, situated about three miles south of the Oklahoma-Kansas border on the Ozark planes at high altitude, smack-bang in between the two pre-existing camps.

It was an odd town, in all fairness. The symmetry was almost impossible: there were four roads, going off north, south, east and west, and all of the houses went slowly and slowly up in size and grounds the further they got away from the town center, which was where the four roads met. The south road extended several hundred meters past the others and led to the training grounds.

"Nick!" someone called.

Nico turned slightly and, sure enough, Percy was grinning and waving at him from across the square, near _Bombilo & Bombilo's Coffee Store_.

Nico waved back and ran over.

"How are ya?" Percy said, his eyes lighting up. Nico had always marveled at how _both_ of his eyes would light up, or both turn to the speaker, even though his left one had been out-of-action for several months now.

"Not bad, thanks," he replied, not mentioning the earlier amnesia. "You?"

"Not too shoddy, all things considered," he said. "Can I talk to you at my place later?"

"Sure," said Nico. "Not a problem. When's best for you?"

"Whenever you're free," he said.

"What's the issue?"

Percy held his head completely still for a moment. It was an odd trick Nico had yet to master, but that had done Percy very well since he lost sight in his left eye. It was difficult and complex, and involved intense attention Nico's ADHD and general lack of focus in the world had never allowed him to obtain, but it basically used people's magic to sense where they were. "You know that issue we sent you to Britain for?" Percy said as though nothing had happened – which Nico supposed was true.

Nico nodded.

"I need you to give me a mission statement on that."

Nico nodded again, but inside he started panicking. His odd memory lapses had only gotten worse since he started going to Britain, and indeed so had his mood swings. It drove Lacy up the wall to no end.

"I'll see you at some point this evening," Nico said, getting up.

Percy raised an eyebrow. "Not grabbing a coffee?"

Nico shook his head. "I need to see Lacy. Know where she is?"

Percy paused a moment. "Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn's a big place."

"Give me a moment," Percy said lightly. "She's in the park near her school campus – _Brooklyn Academy for the Gifted_ , if I'm not mistaken."

"That sounds about right," Nico confirmed. "She free?"

"Mmhmm," Percy said non-committedly, sipping his coffee. "May not be for long, though, so hurry up."

He ran to the Apparition Point just outside of town (it was the one place exempt from Camp's wards to keep out intruders, and the only place you could Shadow Travel to/from in the vicinity) and Shadow Travelled just behind the trees in the park on Lacy's school campus.

He caught sight of the blonde pretty quickly, and sat down abruptly next to her. "All right there, Dove?" he said, smirking lopsidedly.

Lacy closed her book on theatre studies and smirked right back at him. "What're you doing here?" she asked.

"Not happy to see me?"

"Never said that."

Nico slid further up the bench and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Hiding his inner desperation behind Lacy's dyed flaxen curls, he said, "I _really_ need to talk to you."

"You been losing time again?"

Nico nodded and rested his head on hers.

"What brought this issue to the front suddenly?"

"This isn't exactly the best place to talk about it, is it?"

Lacy nodded. "That's fair enough." She was silent for a few moments, then said, "Is this an emergency situation?"

Nico shook his head.

"I'll see you tonight then," she said.

"I need to talk to Percy then."

"After that, then."

Nico nodded held her closer.

Nico knocked on Percy's door at exactly 18:00 that evening before opening the door. Most people didn't bother locking their doors in this town; Percy knew everything that went on everywhere and, while Cabin Eleven were all kleptomaniacs, they were told to go steal from some of the nearby towns instead of here on pain of death.

Well, the official statement was that stealing was strongly discouraged in the local vicinity, but tomato-tomato **(please tell me I'm not the only one who gets a migraine looking at that expression written down?)**.

"Hello?" he called.

"In the study," Percy responded.

Nico padded lightly along the hall – for all he knew, Theo had already gone to sleep – towards Percy's study. The Jackson household was situated right on the outskirts of New London, and was probably the largest one of them all.

The study was almost as large as the next-door living room, and both lengthwise walls were covered in filing cabinets. It had the biography of every person in the Western World, Nico knew. Social security numbers, zip codes, bank details, every dirty little secret encrypted within those files, and Percy was the only person who knew how to crack the code.

As much as he tried to repress it, a part of Nico wanted to break almost every law in the Empire just to find out what was in there. Sure, most of it would be of little consequence – ordinary people usually were – but the good stuff in there … the very thought made his mouth water.

Percy was sitting behind his desk in the center of the room.

"Sit," he said.

Nico sat.

"So, what's happened? Anything of notice?"

Nico thought back to last night – or at least, he _thought_ it was last night. He'd lost days at a time before. He knew _something_ had happened. Something to do with a cauldron, and a boy with Lacy's eyes. Something that wasn't fun.

It came to him in a flash, but he couldn't bring himself to tell Percy.

 _Don't tell_. _We'd get hurt if we told._

"No," he said. "Nothing's happened."

Percy looked him in the eye, sea green on midnight blue, and Nico knew that Percy had detected his fib. Nico didn't know why he lied … he just couldn't make himself tell the truth. His gut twisted – how could he lie about something so important to someone he owed so much? – but he still sat, tight-lipped.

Nico didn't break eye contact. He wanted Percy to know, wanted him to somehow read his mind and know what was going on, but all Percy did was nod. "Okay."

He felt a deep sense of relief – no, that wasn't right. He wasn't relieved. He _did_ , however, feel a deep sense of dread leave him. Why would he be dreading telling Percy anything? Percy had never wronged him, never judged him …

"That's not true," he blurted.

Percy's eyebrows rose. "Go on."

Nico tried to move his mouth, but it refused. "I can't," was all he said.

Percy's eyes softened. "Is it urgent?"

One part of him was screaming for him to get up and run, and Nico wanted to, more than anything else, but he forced himself to stay sitting down and, slowly, nodded.

"Why can't you tell me?"

Nico felt cold, all of a sudden. _Not cold enough_. "Can we open a window?" he said.

"You're shivering."

"Can we please open a window?"

"There aren't any windows in here."

The world was spinning. Nico had a headache. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to, Kid."

Nico nodded and opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

"Need a drink?"

Nico shook his head. Percy pressed a glass of water into his hand anyway. Nico didn't bother to think when he had got it.

"Do you want to see a doctor, Nico?"

"Hmm?" Nico looked up. That moment of panic, the fleeting need to keep everything concealed, had passed, but he could feel it lingering at the back of his mind, _just in case_.

"I'm worried about you."

 _No no no no no no no no…_

"You're not allowed to worry about me," he said. "That's my job, 'member?"

"I'm family," Percy reminded him. "If I want to express my concern, I damn well will."

"I don't need –"

"Yes, you bloody well do! This isn't _normal_ Nico! Most people don't have near panic attacks when trying to tell someone something."

Nico nodded. Percy rarely got angry with him – in fact, it was rare for Percy to get angry at all. Irritated, yes, but never angry.

"So what _actually_ happened?" he asked.

The panic was back in full force, but he pushed it back. He owed Percy this. It wouldn't be right to keep it.

But as the fear faded, so did the memory, like water through cupped hands. "Um … Riddle was there … and Pettigrew … they had another boy there … it … um …"

"What did the boy look like?"

"I don't … I'm not …" The boy wasn't clear anymore. His features had become fuzzy. Had his hair been black, or brown? Red, even? It was dark, but maybe he just thought that because it was nighttime … "He had green eyes!" he remembered. "They're the same color as Lacy's."

"What happened to Riddle?"

"He got a body again," Nico said. He was certain of that. "They called all the Death Eaters there …"

"Do you know which Death Eaters were there?"

Nico shook his head. "No. I don't remember. I don't remember anything after Riddle got his body again."

"That can't be true," Percy said. "You saw the Death Eaters there. Riddle would never let them _see_ his rebirth; meet him after the fact, yes, but never as a bodiless vapor …"

"The boy … Riddle challenged him to a duel I think … he wasn't going to get out, but I helped him out."

Had he? It was fuzzy. All he remembered was a snapshot, a split second in which he thought that he had to help him …

"Can you remember where it was?"

"A graveyard."

"Where, though?"

"I don't know," said Nico. "Somewhere around Little Hangleton, I think …"

"Anything else?"

Nico shook his head. "No. I can't remember anything else."

"Hey, Kid," said Percy, and his tone was kind. Nico couldn't see his face, but Percy crouched next to him. "You all right?"

Nico shook his head again. His head felt crowded, like it was stuffed with cotton wool. "Headache."

Percy wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "No problem. Can you tell me if you remember anything? Maybe write it down, so you don't forget it?"

"Okay," said Nico. "I need to go see Lacy."

"Are you sure it's okay for you to Shadow Travel like this?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I do it all the time."

"Fine," said Percy. "Don't dissolve into a pool of shadows though, all right?"

Nico laughed. "Promise."

"Good."

* * *

 **This was a really dramatic chapter. I'll try not to make them all quite that blatantly DID. That was Nico going through a dissociative episode, so most of the time it's not quite that obvious … I think. I don't have DID so I'm not really able to comment. If you're a DID expert, or someone with it, please tell me about it!**

 **~ Emmy.**

 **Thanks to my friend Satan Gave Me a Taco for putting up with my weird ideas-bouncing.**


	2. Dancing With Demons

**Chapter Two – Dancing with Demons**

 **Chapter summary: Nico and Harry meet again … kind of.**

* * *

Harry couldn't sleep.

He would be returning to the Dursleys the next day, but that wasn't the reason he had settled himself into the Gryffindor common room instead of his cosy bed. His dreams were plagued by thoughts of that odd boy in the graveyard. What had happened to him? He was probably dead. Or perhaps Voldemort had tortured him so badly for helping Harry get away he'd lost his mind. Maybe that was why he'd been so unresponsive during the fight.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Harry whirled around – he recognised that voice. It wasn't a familiar one like Ron's, exactly; nor was it comforting like Sirius's. But it was etched in his memory nonetheless. It was deep and scratchy and had an odd musical quality to it.

"I could say the same of you," was all he said though, his voice managing to obscure the panic he felt.

The boy laughed and, in one smooth motion, swung himself onto the sofa next to him. Harry thought the boy had an odd laugh. It was sweet and joyous, and would have been contagious if Harry wasn't terrified, but nothing about it seemed to reach the rest of his face. It was noise and only noise; there was no emotion to it.

"I don't know your name," said Harry.

The boy arched a dark eyebrow. Harry had always wondered how people did that; he could only manage to do both at the same time, and he had never managed to make himself look anywhere near as scathing as the boy did.

"Good," said the boy. "I'd be a bit disconcerted if you did, considerin' I ain't never told you."

He had a strong American accent, Harry noted absently. A Southern one, if he wasn't mistaken. "Could you tell me your name, then, please?"

"I could."

There was a beat of silence.

"So …?" Harry prompted.

The boy looked thoroughly amused. "So what?"

"What's your name then?"

"'Bout time you asked. It's Nick. Nico, strictly speakin', but I prefer Nick."

Harry nodded. "So … why are you here?"

"I was bored."

"You were … bored?" Harry felt the need to confirm. "So you decided to break into the Gryffindor common room at Hogwarts to visit me?"

"Mmhmm."

"Why?"

Nick shrugged. "Why not?"

He had really long eyelashes, Harry noticed. Long eyelashes and high cheekbones and "just-got-laid" dishevelled hair. "Pretty sure it's against the law."

The boy shrugged. "I've broken plennya laws. This ain't gonna to be the definin' nail in my coffin."

"What kinds of laws?"

"Well, bein' a part of a terrorist organisation, for one."

Harry acknowledged the point and said, "It's curious, really, that you're so close to Voldemort –" surprisingly, the boy didn't flinch, "– but are here, having a perfectly civil conversation with his worst enemy."

The boy turned away and focused on the dying embers of the fire for a moment. "I don't agree with my father on a lotta issues," he said, summoning a poker and using it to stoke the fire.

"That bastard's your _father?_ "

"Mmhmm."

"Who's your mum? Who'd even be willing to sleep with … with _that_?"

Nick snorted. "Believe it or not, Bud, my dad ain't bad lookin'."

"You mean apart from the red eyes and snakey skin?"

Nick turned to him and blinked. When his eyes opened, they had gone red and cat-like. That, plus the sneer that oozed superiority, made the resemblance between father and son an awful lot less deniable. "Point taken."

They sat in silence for a moment, as a smirk slowly twisted Nick's features. "Ain't you disgusted?" he asked. "You're sittin' next to, an' havin' a conversation with, the son of a murderer; the son of the man who killed your parents."

Harry pondered that for a moment. "Well, to be honest I'm too tired to be thinking clearly at the moment," he said wryly, "but more to the point, you aren't your father. His sins aren't yours and, as you said, you don't agree with him on a lot of things."

"Yeah," Nick agreed, "but you dunno know which issues I disagree with 'im on."

Harry nodded, and once again silence overtook them. "I want to play a game," Harry said abruptly.

Nick, who appeared to have spaced out completely, snapped back into reality. He cocked his head to the side. "A game?"

"Yup."

"What kind of game?"

"A question game."

"I don't like being asked questions."

"I'll be answering questions too."

Nick looked at him reproachfully. "Can I pass questions?"

"Yes," said Harry, "but that means I get to ask another one."

"How many are you gonna to ask us?"

There it was again; that first person plural. Harry filed that away as well. "Twenty," he said. "I ask one, you ask one. The one rule is that you can't lie."

"And if I pass a question, you gotta ask a different one?"

"Yes. Deal?"

"Promise?"

Harry wondered what it was that Nick was so determined to hide from him, and then realised he probably expected Harry to ask about top-secret Death Eater plans. "I promise."

Giving him one last appraising once-over, Nick nodded. "A'right'n. Shoot."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Leflore, Miss'ssippi," Nick answered. "Earliest mem'ry?"

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I think I was about a year old," he said, "and I was riding a toy broomstick and nearly knocked over the cat. Don't remember much more. You?"

"Pass," he said lazily.

"Fine. Any siblings?"

"One. Dad's side. What's your family like?"

"Awful," Harry said. "I was treated like a House Elf and my bedroom was the cupboard under the stairs. I didn't even know I was a wizard until Hagrid – that's the Hogwarts' gamekeeper – knocked down the door and told me. What's _your_ family like?"

"Dead, mostly. Favourite food?"

"I'm sorry for your loss. And Hogwarts's treacle tart. It's delicious. Yours?"

"Margarita pizza. Least favourite food?"

"Your dad must hate that; his son's favourite food being a Muggle invention and all."

"He don't know." Nick started doodling on his arm with a pen.

"Oh. I don't really have a least favourite food. I like most of it. You?"

"I throw up whenever I eat meat. Dunno why. Favourite subject?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts. Yours?"

"Languages or economics."

"Do you speak many languages?"

"It's my turn to ask a question."

"Oh. Sorry. You go."

"Do you speak any languages other'n English?"

Harry laughed. "Nope. I know a bit of Latin from spells and such, but not really. You?"

"Quite a few."

"It would be appreciated if you elaborate on that."

Nico caught his eye and smirked. "Very crafty. Just for that, I'll actually answer. I speak French, Italian, German, Latin, Greek an' Spanish fluently. I'm also not half-bad when it comes to Russian, Dutch and Chinese, though I can't read 'em for the life of me."

"Lot of languages."

"I enjoy learnin' them. Datin' anyone?"

"Nope. You?"

"It's complicated. Have you _ever_ dated anyone?"

"Nope. How's your relationship complicated?"

"Pass."

"Okay. Favourite band?"

"Avenged Sevenfold. Favourite film?"

"I've never been allowed to watch them. You?"

"Blood Diamond. You know, the one with Leo di Caprio in it?"

"Never seen it."

"It's good. Favourite book?"

"Quidditch Through the Ages. Yours?"

"Anything by Shakespeare. Favourite song?"

"I don't really listen to music. You?"

"Anythin' by Bach."

"Classical fan?"

"My turn to ask a question."

"Whatever."

Nick fixed him with a piercing gaze. "What _really_ happened on the night of the Third Task?"

"Weren't you there?"

"You can't answer a question with a question."

"Fine. I got through the maze, but was bit by an Acromantula while helping Cedric. So we both took the Cup and were transported to the graveyard."

"I know that," said Nick, "but what about after that?"

"Don't you remember?"

"No," he said, "I don't. I jus' remember wakin' up in the mornin' and not bein' able to move."

"Oh."

"It's fine," Nick said hastily. "I'm used to it, really … You kinda learn to fill in the blanks as you go along."

"So why don't you ask one of your Death Eaters to tell you what happened?"

Nick laughed. It wasn't like his earlier one which, despite not being _real_ , was at least joyous and pleasant. This was cynical – broken, almost.

"Ask the Death Eaters!" he said, barking out another laugh. "Please, they hate us!"

"Why?" asked Harry, resolving to ask about the use of first person plural _again_ at some point.

"You ain't the first person we helped get out," Nick said. "Father wa'n't too happy 'bout Crouch gettin' away." His posture had changed entirely. He sat up straighter, his head was tilted higher, almost defiantly, and his eyes seemed a little bluer.

"Why did you help get 'em out?"

He shrugged. "Felt like it."

"And me?"

"You're a bit … small. I s'ppose I felt sorry for you."

"Jee, thanks."

"Saved your life, didn't I?"

"Point taken."

"I'm fairly sure we've reached twenny by now."

Harry smiled. "I haven't been counting."

"Me neither."

"I have one last question," Harry blurted.

Nico looked down at the watch on his wrist. "Fine. But make it quick; Dad's gonna notice I'm gone soon."

"Why do you sometimes refer to yourself as 'we'?"

Nico looked surprised. "Do I?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "You also have a bit of a change in mood. Like earlier, you started saying 'we', but your body language and everything changed. Even your eyes changed colour."

"I don't remember." His voice had gone stiff.

Harry shrugged. "Ah well."

If Nick didn't want to talk to him about it, it wasn't Harry's duty to push him on the issue.

Nick got up. "It's too warm in here."

"Really?" said Harry. "It's bloody freezing."

"Dad's house is colder," Nick said, walking over to the window and pushing it open. "You get used to it after a while. Kinda like you get used to bein' hungry; if you're anythin' else, it starts to feel weird."

Well, that explained him being skeletally thin.

"What's it like?" Harry said. "Living with Voldemort, I mean."

"Pass."

"No, outside of the game."

"Terrifyin'."

"Why?"

"Daddy Dearest's more prone to mood swings than I am."

He sat back down, sprawling lazily across the sofa. He was shivering imperceptibly. Harry took a moment to look him over. The resemblances to the Tom Riddle he met in the Chamber of Secrets were definitely there: they had the same casually elegance of posture, the same straight nose and perfect Cupid's bow. That being said, Nick had a slapdash smattering of freckles along his nose that Harry knew Voldemort had never had, and a jawline sharp enough to cut someone.

"Why do you live with him then?"

Nick breathed out through his nose slowly. "I suppose … I don't have much of a family. I have one half-sister, but we aren't particularly close … Don't get me wrong, I love her 'n' all, but I suppose our relationship's built more on helpin' each other stay out of Dad's way then any kind of genuine affection. Now … well, I'm too scared to leave, really. I know too much about what's going on for Dad to let me leave of his own free will, but more than that, I'm scared that if I go, it'll be harder to help anyone else. Know what I mean?"

Harry shook his head.

"Ah well," said Nick. "Prob'ly for the best." He looked at his watch again. "I really _do_ need to be goin'."

"Does Voldemort monitor your owls?"

Nick's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't have an owl."

"What would happen if you received an owl message?"

"It wouldn't pass the wards," Nick said. "The owl would get through, yeah, but the letter'd disappear to whichever respective letter box happened to be assigned to the person on the envelope. Why do you ask?"

"What would happen if I sent you an owl?"

Nick's eyes brightened. "Oh, nothing. It'd be fine. Not many people try to get in contact with me or Hazel – that's my sister – and the ones that do don't use owl post."

"So, I'll write to you at some point then?"

Harry didn't know why he offered to write to Voldemort's kid. Maybe it was that Harry felt he owed him. Maybe it was that he seemed interesting. Maybe it was just how damn lonely he seemed. Really, how lonely did you have to be to search out your father's worst enemy, just for a conversation?

"What would your dad do if he knew you were here?"

Nico shrugged. "Dunno. Nothin' that ain't happened before."

"That's not reassuring."

"Why do you care?"

It wasn't malicious or rude. It was just an honest question from a neglected boy.

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Yes," Nick said immediately. "If you've got no reason, you're unpredictable."

He didn't need to finish of the thought; Harry knew what he meant. In household's like the Dursleys', and apparently Nick's, unpredictable meant dangerous.

"You'll just have to learn it, then."

Nick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Just as Harry was starting to become uncomfortable with Nick's forceful gaze, the taller boy snapped his fingers and dissolved into shadows.

* * *

Hazel wasn't amused.

"What were you thinkin'?" she snapped, her hollow eyes alight with fire for the first time in months. "What if Father had found out?"

Nick couldn't bring himself to care. "Then I wouldda handled it."

"This isn't your usual, little acts of rebellion, Nico," she reminded him. "This is betrayal. It's consortin' with the enemy."

"Oh, come on!" Nico scoffed. "You don't honestly believe any of the racist bullshit that comes out of Daddy Dearest's mouth, do you?"

"Of course not!" she denied vehemently. "Just how stupid do you think I am? Even though it's wrong, you dying out of sheer bolshiness isn't goin' to do anyone any good!"

"He wouldn't kill me."

"He's about this far from tryin'!"

"Then let him. I'm sick of this."

"How about you stop being so goddamn selfish and think about other people for once in your life?"

"You're one to talk. What do you do when Daddy goes on his rants? 'Of course Father', 'What a brilliant idea, Father' – it's pathetic!"

"If I'm dead or insane, I can't do jack shit to help anyone!"

"I manage to!"

"Your sanity is questionable. Still havin' those mood swings? Hearin' those voices?"

Nick reeled back as though he had been slapped. The heartbreak was clear on his face.

Hazel's gaunt features softened slightly. "Nico, I'm –"

"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' TELL ME YOU'RE SORRY!" he screamed at her.

Hazel stepped away from him. Sure, she had seen Nico angry before, but it was never aimed at her. Generally speaking, he and their father would have screaming matches that lasted hours at a time and ended with some priceless family heirloom being broken and one (most often both) requiring varying degrees of medical attention. Not that Nico ever got it.

"Nico, please –," she begged, reaching out to him.

His shoulder trembled, and he turned away from her. "Don't _touch_ me!"

"What if Father comes home?" she pleaded. "What if Malfoy, or Nott, or Yaxley come back? Please, Nico …"

Nico took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry Hazel; I don't know what came over me …"

Hazel touched his shoulder, but he hissed and flinched away.

"It's fine, Nico," she comforted. "I was out of line."

"No, no no …" Nico said, shaking his head. He still didn't face her. "It was right; you were right, as always …"

"Nico … are you all right?"

"Mm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine … Just got a headache, is all …"

"Do you want to go to bed?"

"Probably should, yeah …"

He made no move to go, though, staying as though stuck to the floor and staring at the carvings on the doorframe as though they held the answers to life.

"Come on then, Kid," said Hazel, using Percy's nickname for him. "Let's get you to bed …"

* * *

Moriarty's lip curled. Oh, how he _hated_ werewolves! But, alas, the almighty Percy Jackson had decreed that they needed to fight for them instead of Tom Riddle or Dumbledore, and Percy Jackson's word was law back home.

Whatever. Maybe he could get something out of it.

' _Bet you I could get somethin' out of it,'_ said Julien. _'What I wouldn't give to –'_

' _We don't need to know about your_ perversions _, Julien,'_ Moriarty replied.

' _Whatever.'_

Moriarty smiled at the people – although he used that term loosely – gathered in the cave. Mildew glistened damply along the walls with what he assumed was water – not that he would touch it to check. He had no doubt that the other creatures had touched it, and it was beneath him to copy.

"So you're the representative from the Dark Lord," the largest and hairiest of the creatures said.

"That would indeed be me," said Moriarty, careful not to let his disgust show. He offered a hand out, but the man – creature – thing – whatever, just stared at it. "Greyback, is it?" he said, clasping his hands behind his back again.

"That would indeed be me," Greyback mimicked. His teeth were sharp and yellowish, and his hair hung lankly around his face.

"And these are …?" Moriarty looked around the room, making eye contact with each face. Some were vicious, some were submissive, and all were worn beyond their years.

"People who don't matter," Greyback disregarded.

"Ah." It was hard to breathe in here, what with so many animals and so little ventilation.

"So," said Greyback, and his blue eyes shone with greed, "what are you going to offer us?"

' _I could offer 'im a lot if you'd lemme out,'_ said Julien.

Moriarty ignored him. "So … are we going to go to the official diplomatic embassy room, or are you just trying to make things difficult?"

Greyback shrugged. "Too good to talk in front of us?"

Moriarty cast a look around, making eye contact with every defeated, disenfranchised face in the pack. "Some matters," he purred, "are … _delicate_."

Greyback looked suddenly interested. "Follow me."

Moriarty followed Greyback through twisting tunnels, trying as hard as possible not to touch the walls, but still feeling odd droplets and globules falling on him. He shuddered.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief when Greyback finally found whichever room it was that he was looking for, but that breath caught in his throat when he saw the predatory grin on Greyback's face. With hindsight, perhaps it would have been better to stay where there would have been witnesses.

Greyback grabbed his shoulder. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, trying to remain in control, but he could feel Julien and Eliza pushing for him to move.

' _Fuck off Bud,'_ Julien said adeptly. _'This ain't your role.'_

Moriarty stepped away from Greyback hairy arm. "I'm not interested."

The werewolf grinned. "Yeah you are. You have to be."

"I don't _have_ to do anything."

The werewolf's yellowish grin slipped off his face, and he became serious. Eliza retreated backwards, sinking back into the shadows of the Vault, but Julien remained on high alert. _'You may have use of me yet.'_

"A'right," said Greyback. "Wotcha want? Ya from the Dark Lord, ain't ya?"

"Yes," Moriarty said. "And no."

The grin was back. Moriarty could feel it making his stomach churn, but there was nothing for it to reject. _'_

 _You're welcome,'_ said Rosemary.

"Is that so? The Dark Lord's pretty little baby, not very loyal at all."

Moriarty grinded his teeth. "I have a proposition for you. Two, in fact. It's your choice which you take."

"Shoot."

"The first is the Dark Lord's proposal," he said. "You will be able to hunt who you want among Mudbloods and Blood Traitors, and be able to carry wands and younger werewolves may receive an education. However, any werewolf found attacking a Pureblood will be given the Dementor's Kiss immediately, and werewolf children will not be able to go to Hogwarts, but rather have different schools built especially for them. This is, of course, on the condition you remain faithful to the Dark Lord: any traitors will be your responsibility, both to hunt down and punish but also to bear the blame of, should they betray the Death Eaters."

Greyback was nodding along. "What about the second one?"

"This is from The Greco-Roman Empire," Moriarty said. "In America."

"Never 'eard of 'em."

"They're the ruling class of America," he explained. "They control large swathes of Europe and some of Asia, too."

"Okay," the werewolf replied. "And what do they want?

"In exchange for werewolf services in defying both the Order of the Phoenix and the Dark Lord Voldemort, the werewolves will be able to form their own colonies with their own rules across Albania and Macedonia. They will receive a stipend from the Empire in order to fund the building of these colonies until a viable economy is formed, at which point in time the funding will be withdrawn, however close trade links will remain. Werewolves have the option of rejecting the option of going to a colony, and may remain in Britain. If that is the case, they will be held to account if they attack anyone on the full moon, and werewolf children will not be able to go to Hogwarts. Schools designed to fit their needs will be constructed specially. Wolfsbane will be made universally available for all who desire it at a fee no larger than the cost of production and shipping."

"They both sound rather attractive," said Greyback. Moriarty didn't like the way he was looking at them. There was something hungry in his eyes, and Julien was more than familiar with it.

"You will obviously require more time to make a decision," the younger replied, concealing his distress, even though he was itching to leave. "I'll give you time to talk it over with –"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Greyback said, grabbing Moriarty's arm as they turned to leave. "I don't let them have a say in what's going on; it undermines my authority. Dictatorships are just _so_ much easier."

Moriarty could feel pins and needles spreading up his arm.

"I'll leave you some time to make a decision."

"No, I don't think so."

' _Dude, move!'_ Julien hissed.

Moriarty refused. "And why, exactly, are you infringing upon my right to move?"

In about a tenth of a second, Greyback had him pinned by the neck, hovering three inches above the ground with his back to the sopping wall.

' _Well,'_ Julien said wryly, _'at least we now know it_ definitely _aint water.'_

"Those terms and conditions are all well and good," said Greyback, "but I know what side you're on. Personally, I'd do better working for the Dark Lord – fuck the others! But you don't want me to do that, do you?"

"Well deduced."

"So offer me something to balance it."

' _Seriously, dude, move_ now _!'_

Moriarty felt himself shunted back, becoming a mere, powerless spectator.

Julien smirked. "I don't think you know what you're gettin' into."

"Oh really?"

"Mmhmm," said Julien cockily. "I could fulfill all your wildest dreams an' more, but it'll cost ya."

"I'm offering the services of all werewolves in Britain," countered Greyback. "That's a high cost."

"But you're willin' to pay more," Julien whispered in his ear. "I _know_ you are."

Moriarty refused to look any further. He told Eliza to get out there (which she did sullenly, as she did everything), and retreated inside the Vault. It was best Nick never knew about that.


	3. Pick Your Poison

**Chapter Three – Pick Your Poison**

 **Chapter summary: in which Harry gets a surprising visitor.**

* * *

It was an unusually hot summer. The sky was empty of birds and clouds, leaving it a cheerful pale blue. Harry himself was skulking around the park, having successfully eavesdropped on another fruitless news day.

"Fancy seein' you here?"

Harry turned around, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu as he once again laid eyes on Nick's angelic yet demonic face.

"I could say the same," Harry said. "Now, if you don't mind me asking, what's a Death Eater doing in Surrey?"

Yes, Harry was in a bad mood that day. With hindsight, it was obvious Nick was, in fact, not a Death Eater, but Harry didn't really care.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't compare me to them."

Harry shrugged. "They work for Voldemort, you work for Voldemort. I don't see a difference."

"I don't work for Voldemort," Nick reminded him gently. "I'm practically slave. I don't got much of a choice in nuthin'."

"You always have a choice."

"There're always options," Nick said, "but whether they count as choices is different. If you're told to, I dunno, do the dishes or die, would you consider that a _true_ choice?"

"Yes."

"Then if someone tried to prosecute the person who killed you, they could get off by claimin' it was a suicide. It's not freedom to choose, Harry: it's blackmail, plain and simple."

"Have you tried getting in contact with Dumbledore, or even the Ministry?"

Nick's face darkened. "I'd never make a deal with Dumbledore. You can forget it right now."

"Whatever. Come walk with me."

Harry didn't understand why Nick didn't trust Dumbledore, but to be honest Harry wasn't very happy with the man at this point in time either. Not to mention he wasn't willing to alienate the only kind-of friend who was talking to him.

"What brings you to Surrey?" Harry said, after several minutes of relatively companionable silence.

Nick shrugged. "Percy had bidness here."

"Percy? Percy Weasley?"

"No, no," Nick said, shaking his head. "Of course not. My cousin Percy."

"There are more of you?" said Harry disbelievingly. He found it hard enough to reconcile the idea that Voldemort had a child, but _more_ family?

"He ain't really my cousin," said Nick, "but he's close as a siblin', and we're distantly related, so I s'ppose it works."

"Mum's side or Dad's?"

"Both." At Harry's inquiring look, he added, "Inbreedin', Harry. It's a Pureblood thing."

Harry snorted derisively and muttered, "Purebloods!"

"A sentiment I share."

They fell back into silence.

"What kind of business is Percy doing?"

"Swimmin' competition."

"Oh, Percy Jackson? I know him!"

"Yeah, that guy. The hotshot Olympic swimmer. Let all those gold medal go to his head, he did."

"Really?"

"No, not really. He's as nice as ever. A bit of a dick, but he's our dick, so we put up with 'im."

"'Our dick'?" Harry smirked.

"That came out wrong. You know what I mean."

Harry laughed for what felt like the first time in forever.

"So, what's Voldemort been up to recently?"

"Can't tell you that."

"Why not? I thought you didn't like him?"

"Well, for one, Dad wouldn't trust me with that kind of information, number two I'm under an Unbreakable Vow to not reveal the little titbits I _do_ get, and number three I wouldn't tell you even if I did know."

"Aw," said Harry. "Don't you trust me?"

"No."

"I'm offended."

"I've met you twice."

"And yet here you are; talking to me when not even my best friends for nearly four years are. When your dad's no doubt given express instructions to have me captured on sight. Doesn't that constitute an element of trust?"

Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. "Want one?"

"I don't smoke."

"Now's as good a time as any to start."

"Don't they kill you or something?"

Nick shrugged. "With the way our lives are goin', we're gonna be dead before this has a chance to take effect."

"Fair enough," said Harry, taking the proffered cigarette. One wouldn't kill him, right?

Nick lit them with a snap of his fingers.

"Don't you get letters from the Ministry for underage magic?" Harry asked, not having taken a drag of his cigarette yet.

Nick exhaled a draught of smoke slowly. Harry remembered being a child, and thinking how cool it was when that happened. It reminded him of dragons from fairy tales, and Harry had always loved dragons.

"Different form o' magic," he said lazily, leaning against the crumbling brick wall in the alleyway and closing his eyes.

Harry was still holding his unsmoked cigarette, trying to copy Nick's effortlessly classy way of killing himself. "How are there different forms of magic?"

"Well, that ain't really true," Nick corrected himself. "There aren't different types of _magic_ , as such, but rather different ways of _harnessin'_ magic."

"You lost me."

"At the risk of soundin' like a hippy, everyone has some form of energy. How they channel it, however, is very different. People like you, Father, Dumbledore, the generic 'wizard' or 'witch', channels it though incantations and a wand. There ain't nuthin' _wrong_ with that, per se, but it's surprisin'ly inefficient."

"How's it inefficient?"

"Do y'all have physics classes at Hogwarts?"

Harry shook his head, then remembered Nick had his eyes closed.

Nick seemed to notice regardless. "Oh," he said. "Anyway, there's a thing in physics called the Law of Energy Conservation. It basically says that energy cannot be created or destroyed. So, when you put energy into a spell, it has to go _somewhere_. You also can't get no more energy out of that spell than you put in it."

Harry asked how that worked.

"Well, light is energy. Sound is energy. Movement is energy. Think of all the energy that's used up and transferred in a spell. You need the energy to say the spell, to move your wand in the _exact right motion_. Think of how much is lost in light when it travels towards someone, or how much is lost in sound as it travels. It's a lot easier to get right then, say, my form of magic, but it uses a lot more energy for a much weaker result."

"So what does _your kind_ of magic involve?"

"Very little movement, no incantation or wand, and one hell of a lot of self-control."

Somehow, Harry found it hard to believe Nick had much in the way of self-control.

* * *

It came in patterns Nico just didn't understand.

One moment he was so high he was in Heaven; an hour later he was in the pits of emotional Hell. It wasn't a simple happy/sad mood swing, which would have made it easier. No, it was ecstasy and desolation; narcissism and self-loathing; invincibility and paranoia.

Nico loved the mania. He loved the high. He loved being God. It wasn't bad, until the urges came: to jump in front of a speeding car, go outside barefoot in the snow at 4 a.m., or to forsake any kind of relationship status and jump someone. That was easily countered though; three or four sleeping pills usually made the world seem less … flowery.

The paranoia was unbearable. Everyone, even Hazel, even Percy, was out to get him. Every word, every simple change in body language was analyzed to death. Everyone was laughing at him. He wanted to lock himself away. He wanted to never look at anyone ever again. He couldn't tell what they were thinking about him, but it was obviously negative, right? What was there to like about him? It was frustrating and wrong and _stupid stupid stupid!_

Then there was rage. His vision faded in and out and in and out and in and out until he lost himself. He never remembered what he said, what he did, but his voice would raise and raise and raise until his fists were balled at his side and he was screaming, laughing and crying all at once. The skin on his palms would break open and bleed in tiny crescent shapes that faded within the time it took for his mood to swing again.

The worst by far, though, was the _emptiness_. Nico could cope with rage, could cope with the high – they were painless to sort. A few pills, a simple injection … Nico could take that … The emptiness, though …

The world was underwater. A thin, grey film clung to everything, dulling the pictures, muting the sounds, stifling the tastes and blunting the emotions. Nothing mattered then. He didn't care. It didn't matter. Life, death, what were they really? States of existence. And what was life, if you felt like a ghost? It didn't matter. It didn't.

It took a knife to snap him out of that, and Nico didn't like knives.

 _The world's a funeral, a room of ghosts._

 _No hint of movement, no sign of pulse._

 _Only an echo, just skin and bone._

 _They kick the chair but we, we help tie the rope._

* * *

Harry never actually smoked the cigarette Nick gave him. Nor did he smoke any of the ones offered to him later, although he didn't refuse them.

He could sit for hours, rolling them in between his fingers. Nick had smirked when he noticed Harry never went beyond lighting them.

" _Pick your own poison, then. Everyone has one."_

Harry wondered if that choice had already been taken from him, a long time before.

It was the hottest day of summer so far, but Nick was still wearing long sleeves.

"Aren't you a bit … warm?" Harry asked tentatively. "I imagine long sleeves and sweats aren't particularly suitable for this time of year."

Nick shrugged. "I don't really notice it," he answered carefully. "Body temperature's quite easy to control, with enough experience."

"Had a lot of experience with that?"

Nick smiled tightly. "More'n you, that's for sure, Potter."

Harry wondered what it must be like, having such a high degree of control over yourself. Regulating body temperature would have been nice, during all those cold winter nights spent in the cupboard under the stairs.

"It's nearly time for the news," Nick said.

"Will there be anything of interest on it?"

"Far as I'm aware, no."

Harry hmphed, and pointedly made himself comfortable against the wall.

Nick laughed. "Still no word from Dumbles?"

"Nope," said Harry. "All I've gotten from Ron, Hermione and Sirius is just _'keep your nose clean'_ , _'stay out of trouble'_ and _'we'll tell you when we next see you'._ I mean, could they not at least give me some inkling of when they're next going to see me? Is saying, _'within a month'_ _really_ going to give _so much_ away to someone who _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , by some stroke of fate, happened to intercept my letter? They don't even have to give context or anything! They could just write, on a small scrap of parchment, _'next week'_. _I'd_ know what they were talking about, but what are the odds someone else will?"

Nick sat in silence during Harry's rant, nodding along and humming quietly in agreement at appropriate times, but he suddenly turned thoughtful. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you … mentioned … me? In any of your letters?"

"No." Harry frowned. "Why?"

"It's just … Well, you know me a bit, by now … but they don't. To anyone else, I'm just Voldemort's kid. His heir. A Death Eater. Maybe they think I'm usin' you or summat."

"Are you using me?"

"Yeah, for company. I love Hazel an' all, but it ain't fun havin' conversations suddenly interrupted when we both freeze at so much as a creaky floorboard."

Harry smiled wryly. "Glad I'm of such use to you."

Nick laughed along.

"Has anything actually been happening with Voldemort?" Harry asked. "Anything I might be able to tell them?"

Nick's expression became pained. "Nuthin' I can tell you."

"Why not?"

"I know they're plannin' something to do with the Department of Mysteries," Nick said. "I know a few more details, but I can't tell you."

"Why not, though?"

"Dad would know." Nico half-smiled ironically. "And then … well, I ain't no use to no-one if I'm dead."

"Would he actually … y'know … kill you? I mean, as you said earlier, you're his son. His heir. The person to continue his cause when he's no longer here. It seems a bit … I dunno …"

"He wouldn't like it," Nick conceded. "He views his – my – bloodline as royalty; he wants to be worshipped, and by extension he wants me to be worshipped, but if I tried to betray him or summat …"

"But then, who would his heir be? Hazel?"

Harry had met Hazel a few times. She was nice enough – a bit jumpy, but then again so was Nick – however Harry doubted she would be able to take over an army as ruthless as the Death Eaters.

"Oh no," Nick scoffed. "Dad wouldn't never let a half-blood, let alone a _female_ half-blood, take over his cause, the sexist pig. No, if Father had it his way, he wouldn't _need_ an heir. He's immortal, for now. You saw what happened when you 'killed' him when you were a kid. That's the way it'll stay, unt –."

He stopped suddenly.

"Nick?" Harry said tentatively, shaking Nick's shoulder lightly.

"I can't tell you that," he said. His voice sounded childish and hollow.

"That's okay," Harry said. "You don't have to."

Apparently it was the right thing to say, because Nick snapped out of it after that, although he kept scratching his left arm through his sleeve.

"I should be getting back," Harry said reluctantly. "Uncle Vernon threatened to lock me in the shed if I come home after Dudley again."

"Okay," Nick said, "I'll walk with you."

Harry stood up, his leg muscles screeching in protest. He shook them. "Pins and needles," he said, at Nick's questioning gaze.

Nick said to walk it off, so they did.

They walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley's gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry followed Nick as he stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited. Malcolm was saying about someone "squealing like a pig," and the others guffawed along.

"Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers.

"Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley.

"Round at my place, my parents will be out," said Gordon.

"See you then," said Dudley.

"Bye, Dud!"

"See ya, Big D!"

Nick snickered. "'Big D'," he repeated disbelievingly. "He compensa'in' for summat?"

Harry stifled his own sniggering.

When the other boys' voices faded, the pair rounded Magnolia Crescent and jogged until they were in hailing distance of Dudley, who was strutting along at his leisure and humming tunelessly.

"Hey! Big D!" Harry called, grinning and running ahead.

"Oh," Dudley grunted, "it's you."

"How long have you been 'Big D', then?" said Harry, falling into stride beside the larger boy.

"Shut it!" snarled Dudley, turning away.

"Cool name," said Harry, grinning. "But you'll always be Ickle Diddykins to me."

Nick had caught up with them by then, but he didn't acknowledge Dudley.

Nick didn't acknowledge many people, and they returned the favour.

When the deep, penetrating cold seeped into their bones, Nick showed them a short cut through the dehydrated, yet still perfectly trimmed gardens, and Harry got back to Number Four with no fuss, no Ministry warning, and no news from his friends.

Nick left the next week, and Harry had no idea what happened to him.

Maybe his own poison got the better of him.

* * *

It was amazing, Reyna thought, how many miraculous things the Romanians simply didn't appreciate.

Magical Romania was not particularly rich, nor productive, or really anything special. It was just another country, at the end of the day, and not a particularly nice one at that. But it was rich in secrets.

There was magic around here that hummed in a way nothing else did. It saturated everything with sweet smells of abstract concepts. Reyna wasn't sure how something could smell of knowledge, or of memories, or simply of magic, but it did, and Reyna couldn't get enough.

She got on well with the Magical Romanians. They had a strong work ethic and deferred to authority with lacking ambition. Quite similar to home.

She walked into the old Ministry Hall. It wasn't like back home, which was all high glass ceilings and soaring marble pillars and intricately designed walls, with large, securely locked double doors. No, it was an ancient stone building that had stood for centuries, and been the center of the Romanian government, and essentially all of Magical civilization, since before records began.

The talk with the Minister was briefer than it by all rights should have been. Sure, she had known the man for years, and had played a large part in securing funding for his election campaign two or three years ago, but the security was lax nonetheless. Reyna made a mental note to up security after the Minister was out of the picture. She had what she wanted now.

"Down the hall, fifth door on your left, and then third door on the right and down the trapdoor in the back right hand corner. It's underneath a loose floorboard about halfway along. If you come to a picture of King Carol II, you've gone too far," said the assistant like she'd rather be anywhere else but there, and plopping a heavy silver key into Reyna's hand.

Reyna smiled and nodded, and made a mental note to … _encourage_ Artur to get a new secretary. Was the "inside voice" Sally went on about to little Theo so hard? Did she have to try and reveal Romania's most closely kept secret to the whole world?

By the time she reached the room, though, all thoughts of replacing the annoying secretary were quickly banished. Whatever it was that clung to every recess of the Ministry upstairs, it was nothing compared to the almost tangible aura of this room. Reyna felt like a goddess, like she had the whole world at her fingertips.

She snapped herself out of it; if there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was that things that seemed this good were always harmful.

But she just couldn't get enough.


	4. Message in a Bottle

**Chapter Four – Message in a bottle**

* * *

 _September 5_ _th_ _2013_

 _Nick,  
_ _You said I could write to you, so I hope this message finds you in good health (God, how pretentious does that sound? Sorry). I'm back at Hogwarts now; do you know much about it? I know Voldemort went there, but I've never seen you before there, and he doesn't exactly seem like the type to sit down and discuss the academics, so I've kind of assumed you don't know much about it._

 _I had a right go at Ron and Hermione when I saw them. They left me at the Dursleys' until midway through August, you know. They took me to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, or something like that (can't tell you where it is: it's under the Fidellius charm or something) and told me that Dumbledore told them not to write to me about anything. They didn't tell me anything when I got there either, so my summer has, overall, been thoroughly unproductive._

 _The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher' a right toad. You may have heard of her. Her name is Dolores Umbridge, she's 4'0 and has an unhealthy obsession with the colour pink. She denies Voldemort's return and has, apparently, been at the forefront of a slander campaign against myself and Dumbledore for the past three months. By the reaction of my classmates, it was bloody successful, too._

 _Enough of my ranting, though. How are you doing?_

 _Yours,  
_ _~ Harry J. Potter._

 _P.S. Would I use "yours sincerely" or "yours faithfully"? I remember learning the difference in primary school but I can't remember it for the life of me._

* * *

 _September 9_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _All right there Harry?  
_ _Yeah, you sound like a right pretentious twat, but what's new? And believe it or not, Dad_ _has_ _spoken about Hogwarts occasionally. He has his moments in which he feels vaguely fatherly (after he's had too many pain relief potions, that is; apparently using the Cruciatus Curse too much is damaging to a person. Who knew?), so it sometimes comes up. I don't know a whole lot about it – Father's ramblings are usually about how it's being destroyed by Mudbloods and Half-Breeds rather than actual information. It's run by Dumbledore, though, so I don't much feel like attending._

 _I don't blame you for being annoyed with them: they're your friends, and they abandoned you when you most needed them. Do they have therapists at Hogwarts? It might be good for you to talk to one. I had one for a few months when I was 11 – 12, so maybe you should look into it?_

 _The Order of the Phoenix is Dumbledore's army in this, then? Dad hates them. Their nickname among the Death Eaters is The Order of the Fried Chicken (the joke being that they're all a bunch of cowards – i.e. chickens – that they're going to burn to the ground. It's poor at best.) And it's spelt Fidelius, by the way. It basically means no-one but one trusted person (called the Secret Keeper) can reveal an area's location. If the Secret Keeper is killed, then whoever the Secret Keeper entrusted the location to becomes the Secret Keeper – there can be more than one._

 _I've heard of Dolores Umbridge, although I can't tell you much about her. She drafted an anti-werewolf piece of legislation a few years ago, so now it's virtually impossible for any werewolf to find a job. It just resulted in more crimes from werewolves and the like, but she used it to show they couldn't be trusted with "civilized jobs". Go figure._

 _I'll do some more digging for you; I've got nothing better to do with my time._

 _Sincerely yours,  
_ _~ Nick._

 _P.S. If your salutation doesn't include a name (i.e. Dear Sir/Ma'am; To whom it may concern), you use "Yours faithfully", or "Yours Truly". The former is typically British, and the latter is American, in general. If you address someone by name (i.e. Harry), use "Yours sincerely", or "Sincerely yours", again depending on British vs. American._

* * *

 _September 10_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _Nick,  
_ _Thanks for that, mate. Really fills me with joy._

 _I find it really hard to imagine your dad being fatherly in any way, but I'll take your word on it._

 _As far as I'm aware, there are no therapists here. You just have to go to Madame Pomfrey or your Head of House, and, to be completely honest with you, I don't really want to talk to McGonagall about this kind of thing, and Dumbledore is … less than supportive. What do you have against him, by the way? All I've ever heard from you about him is that you don't like him._

 _What did you have a therapist for, may I ask?_

 _And yes, The Order of the Phoenix is Dumbledore's main army in this whole thing. I wasn't allowed in on the meeting, so I can't tell you a whole lot about them._

 _I never thought the Death Eaters had a sense of humour. Guess I was wrong, huh?_

 _Oh, that makes sense. None of the others explained it to me, although to be fair I never asked._

 _I'm not surprised by Umbridge doing that; she's managed to say some really racist things, and we've only had three or four lessons with her, and most of those were just spent silently reading the textbook. It's right boring, I'm telling you._

 _That brings me to the real point of this letter: Hermione has asked me to lead an illegal Defence Against the Dark Arts group. Opinion?_

 _We aren't learning anything in DADA with Umbridge teaching, and, considering Voldemort is back and everything, we need to be able to defend ourselves. I'm not sure if I'm the right teacher._

 _I look forward to hearing what you gather on Umbridge._

 _Yours sincerely,  
_ _~ Harry J. Potter._

 _P.S. I never caught your full name._

* * *

 _September 24_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _JP,  
_ _Sorry about the long wait; I'm not feeling very well. Hazel's writing this for me._

 _Just do it, but make sure you won't be overheard. Pick who you meet with_ _very_ _carefully._

 _Find some way to warn Dumbledore about the DoM.  
_ _~ Nicostratus T.M. di Angelo (don't laugh; my mom was Italian.)_

* * *

 _September 25_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _Nick,  
_ _It's no problem about the wait, mate (haha, it rhymed.) Hermione said she'd cover admissions, and I trust her judgement on that. I think we're meeting in the Hog's Head, in Hogsmeade. Very few people go there, so it should be okay._

 _I know the DoM is the Department of Mysteries, but what actually_ _is_ _it?_

 _~ JP._

* * *

 _September 26_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _Are you 100% sure you trust Hermione? After this summer?_

 _Rethink your location: men are easy to buy._

 _~ Nick Angelo._

* * *

 _September 27_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _I trust Hermione with my life. I'll think about changing the location, but the only other place is the Three Broomsticks, and we'll be too easily overheard._

 _Are you feeling all right, mate? Your last few letters have been very short._

 _~ JP_

* * *

 _September 28_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _I'll deal._

 _Three Broomsticks is ideal; no-one questions a group of teenagers in a popular place._

 _Don't write back until I say so._

 _~ Nick._

* * *

 _October 7_ _th_ _, 2013_

 _Harry,  
_ _I'm sorry about the wait; Dad was getting suspicious. He's getting very agitated about something in the DoM. I know what it is, but I'm under Vow not to tell you. I'll see if I can see you soon._

 _I found out some interesting stuff about Umbridge, though:_

 _Umbridge was the first child of a wizard named Orford Umbridge and a Muggle Ellen Cracknell. Her younger brother was a Squib, but she was born a witch. Under her father's influence, she despised her Muggle mother and her Squib brother, considering them inferior to her and her father, and Umbridge and her father denounced them. Ellen and her son returned to the Muggle world, never to be heard of again._

 _After leaving Hogwarts, Umbridge quickly rose to influential positions in the British Ministry of Magic. At the age of 17, just after leaving Hogwarts, she started her political career as an intern in the Improper Use of Magic Office, and before reaching age 30, she became the Head of the Office, due to her ruthless tactics and tyrannical leadership under her sweet attitude, which also involved taking credit for other people's work._

 _She is ashamed of her father, who was a low-level worker in the Department of Magical Maintenance, while she was seeking a professional career. Under her pressure, he retired early and she promised him a small monthly allowance in exchange for quietly leaving the public sight. From that point on she lied about her family, claiming that she was a pure-blood rather than a half-blood. She became Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic and now has a place amongst the Wizengamot._

 _Considering this, I found it surprising she wasn't married, but here's why:_

 _Throughout her career, Umbridge has attempted to garner affections of one of her superiors in order to advance her status and security, with no particular desire on which superior it would be, as long as they made a powerful husband. However, while they valued her hard work and ambition, those who got to know her best found it very difficult to like her very much. Indeed, when she gets intoxicated from a glass of sweet sherry, she is prone to spout very uncharitable views, which shocks even those of anti-Muggle ideologies with some of her suggestions, behind closed doors, of the treatment that the non-magical community deserved. As such, she has yet to succeed in getting married._

 _Umbridge's hatred towards "half-breeds" led her to draft a piece of anti-werewolf legislation in 2012, which prevented people with lycanthropy to have a full-time job, making it nearly impossible for werewolves to find work. She also suggested that the merpeople be rounded up and tagged, and also planned to create the legislation of it as well, but it was never put to action, since it was too absurd to be ever put into effect._

 _Try not to throw her Half-Blood status in her face, if you can, Harry; bad things happen to those that inquire after Dolores Umbridge._

 _~ Nick._

* * *

 _October 8_ _th_ _2013_

 _Yikes. I knew she was bad, but … Is she really a half-blood?_

 _Umbridge attacked Hedwig yesterday (luckily it wasn't your letter), which is why I'm using another owl now. I figured that us getting caught writing to each other wouldn't be good for anyone._

 _I spoke to the ever-dark Vito Corleone yesterday, and Hermione just told me that she was rethinking the idea we discussed earlier. She says that she thinks said Corleone is too reckless, having been cooped up for so long. I find it ironic that, as soon as too many people agree with her idea, she doesn't like it anymore._

 _I tried to convince Hermione to change venues, but she's stubborn as a mule when she thinks she's right, and she said it was "too late notice to change it. You should have told me earlier." Go figure._

 _Umbridge passed Educational Decree No. God-Knows-What which meant no student organisation could exist sans her permission. We barely managed to reform the Quidditch team._

 _On the note of Quidditch, I have practice now, so I should probably go._

 _Final thing: How does the silencing charm work? Flitwick assigned me extra work to do on it, but I just don't understand._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 _October 9_ _th_ _2013_

 _I get I just wrote to you and all, but, real quick, would "Dumbledore's Army" work as a group name?_

 _~ Harry_

* * *

 _October 9_ _th_ _2013_

 _If you want to get sent to Azkaban for creating a terrorist organization should you get busted, it is._

 _Try something more humorous (these_ _are_ _teenagers this is meant to appeal to) like "The Ministry Can Suck This" or, if you want to save your ass, maybe just "Defense Association". If you want to make sure you couldn't get caught, don't give it a name. Just call it The Club or something._

 _~ Nick A.  
_ _P.S. If you want to make sure you can't get caught, don't make your meetings regular. That way you can't be counted as an organization and so are exempt from the Educational Decree. You're very welcome._

* * *

 _October 9_ _th_ _2013_

 _Cheers._

 _Hermione's now interrogating me as to how I sent and got a letter so quickly, so I must leave you._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 _October 9_ _th_ _2013_

 _Tell her to mind her own goddamn business._

 _Although I would also like to know the answer to the question._

 _~ Nick._

* * *

 _October 10_ _th_ _2013_

 _There's a room in Hogwarts called The Room of Requirement. I asked for a box that automatically sent a letter to someone so it did it. It's very useful; I may use it more in the future._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 _October 10_ _th_ _2013_

 _It left a scorch mark on my desk._

 _~ Nick_

* * *

 _October 10_ _th_ _2013_

 _Sorry, mate._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 _October 10_ _th_ _2013_

 _Don't be; I hated that desk anyway._

 _In answer to your letter on October 8_ _th_ _(why do we keep dating the letters?), I know how to research, Harry. You'd be surprised how much you can find with the right books._

 _Just keep using the box. If we're lucky, it'll destroy my desk entirely and I'll blackmail one of Father's Death Eaters into making me a new one. Perhaps one with less threats carved into it._

 _You make it sound like we have a Romeo-Juliet-style love affair. I'll remind you I'm currently in a relationship._

 _Very nice coding. Have you ever seen that film? I assume you have, but …_

 _And are you_ _sure_ _you still trust Hermione? I get I don't know her a lot, but sometimes you need an objective set of eyes to look at things in a different light._

 _This is probably going to go against everything you've been taught, but to do the silencing charm you just really have to want whatever it is you're silencing to shut up. It's why it's easier to silence a human than it is to silence something like a nightingale._

 _If you want the technical version, you need to check your pronunciation. With certain types of magic, such as the one taught at Hogwarts, pronunciation is very important. It's like speaking to someone whose first language isn't English, or perhaps to a deaf person who is lip-reading: you need to be very precise, or they won't understand._

 _Check your wand movement, too. Magic both is and isn't sentient. It can't_ _listen_ _, so to speak, magic merely_ _understands_ _. It needs to hear exactly what it needs to hear and see exactly what it needs to see, otherwise it simply doesn't understand._

 _To be honest, you just need to practice._

 _~Nick._

* * *

 _October 11_ _th_ _2013_

 _I was taught to always date my letters; it's simply good etiquette. I was also taught to always put a return address at the top, but a) I don't know your address (probably for the best), and b) it isn't really necessary with magic._

 _Do you spend a lot of time blackmailing the Death Eaters?_

 _As I recall, you described it as "complicated". So, either loyalty doesn't mean a huge amount to you, or it doesn't mean a lot to the other. I feel my advances are perfectly reasonable._

 _Joking aside, I don't swing that way. Sorry._

 _And no, I haven't. But Dudley obsessed over it when I was fourteen or so, so I have managed to remember the main characters. I don't know how._

 _And yes, I still trust Hermione. I'll be sure to ask your opinion on any further complications, though._

 _I tried that theory in Charms today – it actually worked! Thanks mate._

 _I've never actually heard a nightingale sing … what's it like? I might well have to imagine Snape shutting up though … You know, there were fourteen eye-witnesses that said Myles Bletchley (Slytherin Keeper, I'll assume you know what Quidditch is) hexed Alicia Spinnet (one of our Chasers) in the library, and now she's in the hospital wing because her eyebrows are growing so much they're covering her eyes and stopping her from being able to use her mouth, but Snape just said that she obviously attempted the Hair-Thickening Charm on herself. What I wouldn't give to punch that greasy git in the face._

 _Anyway, I have Quidditch practice now – Angelina's been running us into the ground._

 _~ Harry.  
_ _P.S. My scar's been hurting a lot recently. What's going on with your dad?_

* * *

 _October 13_ _th_ _2013_

 _Of course I spend a lot of time blackmailing the Death Eaters – there's nothing else to do. Well, unless I want to go into the village, but all of the kids there are terrified of me. Mostly because of my dad, but I'll admit I don't do much to dispel that. The adults all love me, though, so it's fun to just randomly knock on the door and demand food._

 _Shame, that. I'm really in to scrawny gits like yourself._

 _Percy and Jason made me watch that film once – they didn't accept that I wasn't allowed to watch T.V for any of my childhood. The girls ganged up on me and made me watch Disney films for a night (cue shudder), so they decided to be a bit nicer and make me watch other films that were a bit more my thing (i.e. Saw, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Godfather, that kind of thing). It was better than I thought it would be._

 _Nightingales are actually quite annoying, in my opinion … They sing at night, see, and I'm not a light sleeper by anyone's standards. That being said, I'm in rural town where there are several thousand nightingales. Compared to other birds they're all right, though; I can't stand most of them._

 _I know a Snape. He's one of Father's Death Eaters. I'll see what I can dig up about him for you … On that note, I haven't had a chance to blackmail Snape yet … this should be fun._

 _Have fun with your Quidditch practice!_

 _~ Nick.  
_ _P.S. He's having more mood swings than I am, and seeing as my therapist thought I was bipolar until she realized they were too frequent, that's really saying something. I'm just staying as far away from the house as I can for as long as I can, seeing as he's very prone to taking his anger out on me. Hazel's fine though: for once Dad's sexism is working in her favor (he doesn't believe women are strong enough to withstand the same things men can *cue eye roll*.)_

* * *

 _October 15_ _th_ _2013_

" _Scrawny git" is rich, coming from you. You must weigh, what, six stone? I'm not surprised the adults love to feed you; Mrs Weasley would throw a fit if she saw you._

 _How does blackmailing Death Eaters actually work? I would've thought they'd Crucio you or something … They don't seem much like the type to take that from a fifteen-year-old._

 _I've never seen a Disney film either … The Dursleys never took me to anything they thought I'd like, and Uncle Vernon always said they weren't "manly" enough for his Dudders … Ugh. Come to think, I don't think I've seen a movie in full before. I've seen snippets of things like_ Indiana Jones _, but only because Dudley would watch them in the living room and I was charged with bringing his fat arse snack whenever he demanded them._

 _Considering what you managed to find on Umbridge last time, I'm rather looking forward to seeing what you can get on Snape._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 _October 31_ _st_ _, 2013_

 _Nick,  
_ _Happy Halloween!_

 _Are you okay? I haven't heard from you in a while._

 _~ Harry._

* * *

 **This is the first time I've tried to write a chapter entirely in letters, and I think it turned out all right, all things considered.**

 **Yours faithfully,**

 **~Emmy**


End file.
